


that's what men make bridges for

by Neffectual



Series: From An In-Ring Perspective [12]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7401154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler has a lot of feelings about Fandango, and he isn't quite sure how to pin them down on a map.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's what men make bridges for

**Author's Note:**

> Written to and title from Seanan McGuire's 'Cartography'.
> 
> 'I will chart the valley of your dreams, call the secrets from your stones.  
> If you don't want me to love you, then please don't let me start.'

He isn’t sure how it started, because one moment they were trading smug smiles with each other, and the next Fandango was violating about fourteen of Tyler’s personal rules by kissing him up against a wall, hands in his hair and daring to pull it free of the snug ponytail he kept it in. Tyler blames surprise for why he didn’t stop it, that first time, why he let Fandango take his mouth, hands moving from his hair to fit close against the ass that had once won competitions. Now, however, Tyler’s on a break from the modelling, and wrestling is the thing he wants to be the best at. It’s a childhood dream he put aside when people commented that he was too pretty, that it would be a waste, when he found out that modelling paid incredible money and that people would fall over themselves to give him cash to walk a very short distance while looking aloof and unattainable. Modelling makes him feel unreal – wrestling is a way to keep himself feeling alive.

Fandango helps with that. There’s a way he has of speaking to Tyler that makes him feel like the centre of the universe, and he’s used to no one but himself talking like that. He puts up a good front, all glossy hair and soft skin, all gorgeous and full of himself because he never learned how to be charming, like Fandango is, never learnt how to talk to other people like they were the same as him, only as something smaller and lesser, the way everyone talked to him. He stumbles over his words, still, trying to say the right thing to Fandango, trying to answer his casual, smoothness with something less forced than his usual brashness. He isn’t sure he manages it, a lot of the time, but his partner never seems to worry about that, and the two of them are on the same wavelength about a lot of things anyway. Sometimes, they don’t even need to speak to be in sync, and that’s part of what makes them such a good tag team. It makes them even better lovers.

Tyler doesn’t do insecurity, that’s true at least, but the first time he’s naked with Fandango for something more than a trip to the tanning booths or stripping down in the locker room, he feels a moment’s pause, a desire to turn the lights off and crawl under the covers. When he meets Fandango’s eyes, there’s nothing but warmth there; not the hunger of previous partners who just wanted to fuck him, nor the adoration of a sycophant – just a warm, steady gaze that weighs Tyler down and lifts him up at the same time. He feels like he’s suddenly lost, like the future is a sprawling maze of highways and his map is out of reach, like he can’t breathe for the heaviness of Fandango’s gaze. He doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t know how to walk forward into someone’s life without baggage, without demands and questions, without being… well, Tyler Breeze. He’s unused to doing things without instructions; modelling is full of them, and wrestling is a series of learned moves, but being in love has no written formula, it cannot be trained, and Tyler struggles with anything where he’s just supposed to go for it and feel his way.

Kisses help, the way their lips slot together, both tasting of crème brûlée lip balm and smelling of Tyler’s $500 face cream, which he rubbed softly into Fandango’s jaw after their shared shower. Beneath that is the taste of mint, toothpaste, and the scent of bergamot body wash Tyler has imported from Italy. It should feel like kissing himself, should feel like he’s alone in the room, but Fandango has such a presence, is so there, that Tyler can’t help but feel like he’s the imposter, he’s the one wearing the trappings of another person, like he’s drowning in his partner and nothing will bring him to the surface but the heat of their skin pressed together, and Fandango’s whispered words as he strokes his palms over Tyler’s freshly-shaven back.

When he’s tucked up against his tag partner, he feels small, safe, wanted; he feels like nothing could possibly go wrong. He forgets the casting director who told him that his chin was too big for film, forgets the way his agency started tutting at him when he started wrestling, how the bruises and the new muscle bulk made him less palatable, like he was supposed to be a cut of meat. Fandango makes him feel like a whole person, not marketable pieces for sale to the highest bidder. Under Fandango’s hands, Tyler is allowed to be something that he’s never been before – uncomplicated.


End file.
